All posts by Sue

Guest Jest 1

We hear a lot of funny stories from (not about) our guests so I have decided that in addition to Child Stories I should have this new series called Guest Jest. The first of these, the flippy floppy hat, has already been posted as the third funny thing,  under a different title in a previous article.

I somehow think that most of these stories are destined to come from one, special guest, The Engineer. The Engineer has been staying with us once a week since 8th September 2015, so we know him quite well. We are acquainted, directly or indirectly, with his family and friends too, in fact it’s true to say that he is a ‘Paying Friend’. The Engineer brings beer and (usually) fixes broken things, so we like him a lot.

This week, The Engineer has had an eventful time both domestically and socially.

At home, some impending visitors caused his wife to insist that he fix the defective flush mechanism on their loo.

The toilet was prone to flush continuously unless the button was prodded and thumped.  On investigation, he decided that a new mechanism was required so he removed the cistern and replaced the flush mechanism, returned the cistern to its place again and flushed. Sadly, water began dribbling from its connection with the pipe. It didn’t take a genius to conclude that there was a leak where before there had been none.

It being difficult to detect exactly what was leaking, The Engineer removed the cistern and enlisted his wife to help find it (the leak). He half filled it (the cistern) with water and sat in the conservatory with it resting on his parted knees while Wifey knelt below, trying to see what had gone wrong. The underside of the tank was wet so she got some kitchen roll and began to dry the area.

This was the point at which things went wrong. It seems that the workings of the newly fitted flush mechanism were nearby, and quite by accident the poor lady set it off. The result was a face full of water for her and filled shoes for him – and a lot of mopping up.

I was trying to find a funny image of a woman with a wet face when I remembered this. It’s me after an unexpected downpour while walking the dog.

Toilet fixed, The engineer set off for his weekly commute from Surrey, bunking at various places, including ours. On this particular evening we were to be deprived of his company; he was to dine with some colleagues. Lucky him, he was being driven to the restaurant.  After a brief chat with us he set out to walk towards his workplace, intending to meet his chauffeur en route. He wasn’t sure what car the guy drove but was relieved when a red Ford Focus, driving towards him, indicated and pulled across the road, stopping a little behind him.

He swung round and opened the rear door. There was a large rucksack on the rear seat, right where he wanted to sit so he grabbed it to move it to the other side of the car. Suddenly a hand shot out from the driver’s side and gripped his wrist. He looked up, into the eyes of a compete stranger. Wrong car!

This puts me in mind of another story, also hear-say but I have no reason to disbelieve it:

Many years ago LH and I had some friends with the strangely normal names, Michael and Karen. These friends were responsible for introducing us to a load of Hooray Henries who called one another ‘Chap’.  From M and K we also learned where in Kinsale, Ireland, we could go for a drink, in every one of the 24 hours that made up an average day, and how to lose at Poker. They owned a bulldog called Horace that was partial to a Vindaloo curry – that’s not relevant but adds to the somewhat eccentric nature of the people concerned.

The couple (Karen eventually ran off with the plumber) lived in a house in the Midlands, a quaint place with oak beams. Their drinks  cabinet – this is relevant – was an old pine corner cupboard, mounted on the wall in the sitting room.

The Hooray Henries treated Michael and Karen’s house like home. They would often wander in for a drink when they were passing. Eventually, M and K moved to a larger house but may have failed to mention this to one or two of their more irritating acquaintances. As a result, one afternoon, a particularly gormless ‘chap’ wandered into the house and proceeded to help himself to a drink from the pine cupboard.

He heard footsteps coming down the wooden stairs and turned to raise his glass to Karen. The person who met his gaze was neither Karen, nor was he delighted to meet him.

The only moral I can think of is: Never call anyone ‘Chap’ as in ‘Hello Chap, how are you?’ I apologise to all public school persons who don’t do this – never would I describe you as Hooray Henries, even if you happen to be Members of Parliament.

Child Quote 15

I suppose, really, that Mavis should no longer be called a child, now that she is 18, however she is still my child and this is my blog so I’m continuing the Child Quote theme.

We are in the Easter holidays; both of us at home. This is a rare opportunity for me to have some quality time with Mavis – when she gets up, and doesn’t have her nose pressed to her phone. Today we went out for lunch and then to see The Greatest Showman. The film was not my favourite, but it entertained me enough to keep me awake, and Mavis enjoyed it, which is enough for me.

It was while dining that conversation led to my proposal that, as there was a bit of time, perhaps we could browse around a couple of clothes shops. ‘I feel like a change of look. Give myself a bit of style,’ I said.

‘You already have a style,’ Mavis replied. Aah, was this daughter of mine about to pay me a compliment?

‘Do I?’

‘Yeah, Batty Old Teacher style.’

I paused, thinking that I rather liked the idea of looking a bit batty. ‘I don’t mind looking like a batty teacher,’ I said. ‘Like Mrs Slopes?

‘No,’ Mavis corrected, ‘A batty old teacher. Mrs Slopes looked like a batty teacher, but you look like the kind of teacher that makes the kids wonder if you’re a witch.’

I think I prefer her when she’s ignoring me.

Some funny things have happened at last, involving Christmas

I know it’s a bit late for a Christmas theme but this post has been rumbling round  in my head since that time. Thanks to a watery, chesty virus keeping me from work,  I have the opportunity to put finger to keyboard. It’s a ill wind and all that.

This Christmas was a weird one for my family. We all spent it in ways never experienced before. My sister went to her ‘in laws’, my brother went to his, the only ones he has ever had, as he was married for the first time this summer.

My esteemed parents stayed home alone and indulged, allegedly cheerfully, in roast beef and alcohol.

By the author

Their aloneness (I think I have made up this word) made me a little uneasy.

Someone else who added to my unease was Mavis, who was contracted to work on Boxing Day. This would not have been such a bad thing had Whizz and I not agreed to go to Horace’s, in Canalshire (work it out), for the festive season.

During the run up to Christmas, we all hoped that the Pharmaceutical chain for whom Mavis works, let’s call them ‘Wellies’,  would be able to swing it so she could have the Boxing Day off, but at the last minute, several people who were also working the same shift, handed in their notices and that was that. Mavis was home alone too.

Henny how, on  to some post-Christmas entertainment.

First: I was recruited by my school to take on the task of  being Santa for the littlies (another made up word). I was presented with a beautiful and thankfully elasticated, scarlet velour outfit, and a wig and beard of the bristly, curly variety. I adopted a voice that Whizz, when I tried it out on him, said sounded more like Winston Churchill than Santa, but since I don’t think he has ever conversed with the latter, I took the remark as approbation, and assumed it in my role.

I was led by the head (duh, not my head, the head teacher), to the Foundation class, where I was introduced, amid childish gasps, to about 50 wee ones. I then settled into a side room and the children were called, one at a time 50 of them – to come and tell me what they would like me to bring them on my sleigh. A teacher attended to take photos.

Wow, did I get into role.  I was magnificent with my, ‘Hello little boy and ‘Have you been good?’ and ‘Make sure you leave me a mince pie.’

Unfortunately the combination of Churchill’s voice and a tickly beard became too much for my throat after the thirtieth child. I began to cough. My eyes watered and my nose ran into the pristine moustache, until a teacher had to intervene and suggest I took a comfort break. Poor little kids looked really worried but none seemed to notice that on my return, my voice had become less Churchillian and more Barbara Woodhouse.

Second: At the same time as I was dressed as F.C., Mavis was bemoaning the fact that she was expected to dress as a Pixie for her work as a sales assistant in ‘Wellies’ (No, she didn’t wear wellies, that is the name of the shop. I did tell you before).

On the few days before the big day, she went on the bus – in normal clothes, refusing to draw attention to herself, even though she would be wearing a coat.

During the course of one day, a small but articulate child accosted her.

‘Why aren’t you in the North Pole helping Santa?’ she demanded, clutching her father’s hand.

‘Well,’ replied Mavis, ‘I’m doing a bit of shopping for him.’

‘The child looked puzzled. ‘But you make all the presents…’

‘Ah,’ replied Mavis with lightning wit, ‘He has to buy some because of copyright.’

The father collapsed into guffaws.

I was rather proud of Mavis for this quick thinking.

Third: Nothing to do with my Christmas, but one of our bed and breakfast guests shared this experience over a beer one evening.

He had tickets for the World  Darts Championship – the semi-finals I think. It seems that it is de rigueur to dress up for these occasions and so he wore his faithful Santa hat. This was no ordinary hat, it was remote controlled. At the touch of a button, the top wagged from side to side in time to a Christmas tune. Over the years the tune had worn a bit thin so he had disconnected the sound, but the hat still flopped to left and right at his ‘digital’ command.

It seems that he and his son, took up a position near to a speaker. Every time the commentator yelled, ‘One hundred and eighteeee’, the vibration set off his hat so that it wagged from side to side in excitement. This guy is an engineer, not given to excitable outbursts, but clearly his alter-ego hat had other ideas.

Ooh, here’s the other funny thing: I received a tea towel from my brother and sister in law. I know, not that exciting but it’s very funny. If you don’t think it’s funny you are either too young or you should not be here.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

https://www.simondrew.co.uk/

Simon Drew picked up a pencil. Simon Drew.

Winnie the Pooh

I was a dreamy child. By that I don’t mean I was a dream, more I was IN a dream. I bumbled through life only vaguely aware of what went on around me, more interested in books and art. I moved little, in fact my grandfather was once heard to observe, while watching me at the swimming pool, ‘She even dives slowly.’

In my spare time, influenced in no small way by the above grandfather, I consumed every book available, starting with the books on my shelves, Peter Rabbit and friends, The Secret Seven, Famous Five, Naughtiest Girl, Chalet School, Black Beauty (so sad) and others. I read my brother’s Billy Bunter, Just William and Jungle Books then began on books my mother had read and before her, my grandmother and in some cases my great grandmother: Eric or Little By Little, Little Women, Tom Brown’s SchoolDays and I can’t remember what else.

The stories from childhood that I remember most fondly, the magical, funny stories that were read to me by my mum or dad at bed time, and later read to myself, were A.A. Milne’s: Winnie the Pooh, The House at Pooh Corner and his poems in Now We Are Six and When We Were Very Young – Aah, Alexander Beetle and They’re Changing Guard at Buckingham Palace.

I was always puzzled by the first chapter of Winnie-the-Pooh, entitled, ‘In which we are introduced to Winnie-the-Pooh and some bees and the stories begin’. The first line is, ‘Here is Edward Bear, coming down the stairs…’

No real clarification followed although Christopher Robin gives a child-like and inexplicable explanation of why he is Winnie, that being a girl’s name. There is no reference, after that first sentence, to the name Edward.

So when Whizz pointed me at a very modern version of the transmitted word, a podcast, about that very subject I was interested.

I suppose it is fairly common knowledge that Christopher Robin was the son of A.A. Milne and that the stories in the books are based on his toys, but who knew that Winnie the Pooh was named after a real bear?

It started in Canada.

In 1914 Harry Colebourne  of the Canadian Cavalry was en route to report to the Canadian Army Veterinary Corps (CAVC), when he spotted a bear cub on White River, Ontario Station, and bought her for $20. Winnie is short for Winnipeg, Harry’s home city.

Winnie with Colebourn. (Thanks to Wikipedia)

Harry kept Winnie throughout his service on the Canadian Western Front, and eventually she travelled  with him to England  as his pet and a mascot for the CAVC. Some time later Colebourne had to go to France, and he left Winnie at London Zoo.

It was at London Zoo that the child,  Christopher Robin, was to encounter Winnie. Because she had been a pet, she was gentle and could be stroked, and fed Honey. Christopher loved feeding Winnie and apparently returned with his father several times do do just that. He became so fond of the bear that he renamed his teddy from Edward to Winnie.

Well, you learn something new every day.

I would like to credit Futility Closet for the information in this blog.  https://www.futilitycloset.com/2017/11/06/podcast-episode-176-bear-inspired-winnie-pooh/ and also Wikipedia. Follow the link to hear the whole episode and to see some amazing pictures of Winnie, her owner and also Christopher Robin feeding Winnie with HUNNY.

Child Quote 14

My Mum reminded me of this.

When I lived in Sheep country I bought myself a fabulous coffee table – well I thought it was fabulous. I was proud of it because it represented my independence in a new single life, after a rocky marriage.

You can see copies of my table all over the place now, but when I found it, it was in a small, independent shop and the owner told me that they would not be able to get many more because it had been manufactured from floorboards, taken from the homes of those who made their fortunes in India during the days of the Raj (Indian for rule). Those homes had now been stripped bare so the supply of floorboards was drying up.

I love my table. Sadly it is now too large for the lounge, but I resist getting rid of it because to me it is more than just a table.

As you see, it is a little more rustic than more modern versions

Anyhow, my marvellous parents were visiting Sheep Country from ‘daahn saaath’. They used to pop up quite regularly to look after Horace, while I was at work or away for a weekend. They had a key, and would walk through the front door, go to my drinks cupboard, which usually contained the remains of the Scotch they had brought last visit and, very generously, fill it with this time’s supplies. Then, while I was at work, they would sit and drink half of my month’s supply of wine (one wine box), which we would later empty during the evening.

During these visits Mum and Dad got to know a number of Horace’s school friends, and on this particular occasion the little girl from next door was in the house. We were all sitting in my living room admiring the new table.

‘It’s an old Indian table’, I explained

‘Oh,’ piped up the little girl, ‘I wonder what happened to the old Indian.’

Boom boom

Picture from the BBC ‘Day in pictures’ 12.12.2010

Nam Myoho Renge Kyo